Those Hanoi Nights (we used to know)
by shan14
Summary: The problem with Charlie is that no one ever knows when he's sober and when he's drunk {Charlie/Leona, kinda}


**A/N:** We had an awesome prompt night on tumblr and then this came into my ask box and I got nostalgic ridiculously fast. also, new otp?

**Anon Prompt:** Party in the newsroom, Leona passes by. Boogie Shoes starts playing and Charlie invites her to dance.

* * *

The problem with Charlie is that no one ever knows when he's sober and when he's drunk.

Sometimes even Charlie can't tell the difference, and whilst his close friends have learnt that the distinction doesn't mean anything - the old man's just as likely to say something stupid whilst sober as he is to have great moments of enlightenment whilst drunk - it also means that sometimes people feel the need to indulge him when he's otherwise feeling completely clear headed.

Years ago, back when he was a correspondent in south east Asia following the war and spent way too many evenings flirting with Leona down a terrible phone connection whilst trying to explain to her why he absolutely _had_ to go to the Phnom Pehn and not stay in Hanoi, she'd developed a habit of humouring him until he ran out of words.

Sometimes it would take only ten minutes - Charlie would run through his usual mess of stuttered compliments and witty bargains and then she'd say something quick and sharp; she was overly fond of using his full name, _Charles_ - and he'd shut up within moments. Other times she'd let him badger her into the early hours of the morning, until she was halfway through a bottle of scotch and could imagine him in an open collared shirt with sweat dripping down his neck and collarbone (because it was always, always humid in Hanoi) and a cigarette dangling from his fingertips. His voice would be husky and half drunk on his own never-ending supply of whiskey and he'd whisper her name deep and rumbly down the tinny line.

"Leona I'll paint you a dozen roses across your skin in oils and kiss you until the sun comes up and run my fingers down, down, down…" he'd tell her, until his words were so mumbled and ridiculous and hot, and she could see the stupid grin on his face, even if he were a million miles away.

"You'll never touch me," she'd murmur back, even though she always wished one day he would, and Charlie would chuckle before hanging up for the night.

She'd go to bed each evening feeling damp and hot under the skin and longing for his bright, dancing eyes.

ooo

Now, and she's almost forgotten those evenings.

She has a business and a son and Charlie has a wife and a daughter but he still has his stupid penchant for lost causes and integrity and unholy amounts of alcohol. Sometimes he'll catch her eye across a table and share a knowing smile, like he's thinking of those Hanoi Nights, and she'll frown at him deliberately - an unspoken, _how dare you bring that up_, reflected in the downcast of her eyes.

She wonders, sometimes, what would have happened if they'd ever given in to each other. They wouldn't have lasted beyond a brief, passionate affair - they're both much too volatile for anything more - but damn, she thinks, the sex would have been fantastic. Charlie's voice when he was high and muttering in her ear about all the wicked things he would do to her was much too sinful for anything less than perfection.

But they're older now; and she's wiser. Charlie's still as idealistic as the day he was born but when he's not using it to blindly bat at republican politicians and piss off advertisers, she finds it endearing.

They're all having a party - the NewsNight bunch - and Leona finds herself wandering down the halls towards the main newsroom. Will's off in the corner with Mackenzie huddled close and they're both wearing adoring smiles that can only mean trouble. Leona's been waiting for the day those two exploded again ever since the petite EP returned from Pakistan, but as long as they keep their romance contained to the bedroom this time, she'll be happy.

Some small part of her that still believes in love and infatuation wishes the two of them well.

"What's this?" a familiar voice rumbles, and Leona turns to find Charlie stood behind her. He's wearing a stupidly dotted bowtie that clashes with his suit and she arches an eyebrow as he smirks at her.

"Daring to brave the hallowed halls of NewsNight, Ms. Lansing?" he questions.

His voice is rumbly and amused and she doesn't know how much he's had to drink, but he's not holding a glass of anything so that's a good indication that he's still sober. His eyes are clear as she meets his gaze, and his smile has grown fonder, like he's happy to see her here.

"I heard music. I thought I should investigate," she drawls, and Charlie's smile grows until his dimples look ridiculous.

"Dance with me?" he asks out of nowhere, and flourishes his hand before her.

Almost 40 years she's known this man, and never once has he asked her to dance.

"There's no music," she counters, and Charlie scoffs.

"Nonsense. There's music."

She strains to hear it over the din of excited producers and technicians mingling over copious amounts of alcohol (and god help him McAvoy better be footing the bill for all of this, an idle part of her mind thinks). The music is boppy and something she remembers from long ago and the last thing on earth anyone should be dancing to.

"Boogie Shoes?" she deadpans, and Charlie's grin only grows.

"1975! Hell of year!" he announces jovially, and grabs Leona's hand before she can step away.

He has her pulled into his arms and she can't help but stumble in her heels as she collides with his chest and then an arm scoops low around her waist and Charlie's rocking her from side to side.

"Be happy with us," he tells her simply, and she blinks rapidly to try and clear her thoughts.

"Will is happy. Mackenzie is happy. The team is happy. We did a good show tonight," Charlie continues. He's rambling again, and already Leona can feel herself slip into the role of humouring him.

"Be happy," he smiles, and his eyes are as bright as they were when she first meet him overnight in Hanoi.

They'd shared far too many cocktails and swapped stories about the war and then had stumbled up to bed together with every intention of sex before collapsing, exhausted, on the bed.

It's the closest they ever came to anything and she wonders if Charlie ever regrets falling asleep as much as she does.

The smile in his eyes suggests so.

"Do you remember?" he murmurs, and he doesn't have to finish the sentence. She remembers the hum of a million cicadas out the open window and the feeling of sweat dripping down her stomach and her back and Charlie's eyes burning through to her skin and then the tone of his voice, dark and sinful, down the phone when she was back in America.

"Of course," she tells him in return, and he nods as if perhaps that's enough.

The music is still ridiculous and a few of the interns have started singing loudly - someone whistles and Leona doesn't know if that's because everyone's slowly moving onto the makeshift dance floor, or if it's because their boss is slow dancing with her.

Either way she doesn't care.

Nobody knows if Charlie is drunk or sober. Nobody cares either way.

Leona closes her eyes and listens to the stupid, 70's song and tries to remember a time when she was last content to be held by somebody.

ooo

_Girl, To Be With You Is My Fav'rite Thing _  
_Uh Huh _  
_And I Can't Wait Til I See You Again _  
_Yeah, Yeah_


End file.
